—Arman—
> [Pending Reward: Final Warden Clear Drop Acquired]
> [Claim Reward? Y/N]
He didn't hesitate.
"Y," he whispered.
The world dimmed.
The light around the system screen flared white-hot, then deepened to a haunting black hue. The silver glow of the usual menus turned to a faint blood-red pulse, like something deeper, older than the system itself had awakened.
> [Reward Claimed: ??? – Bound Artifact Acquired]
> [Initiating Materialization…]
Something fell into his palm.
Not descended. Not summoned.
Fell—like a star dislodged from its rightful place.
A blade.
Longer than a dagger, shorter than a longsword. Rough. Uneven. It looked rusted, like it had been buried for centuries in bones and ash. Its surface shimmered faintly under the room's light, but its weight—its presence—was undeniable.
The maid gasped behind him.
Even Selvaria flinched, a small intake of breath betraying the break in her calm exterior. She stepped back half a pace, hand brushing instinctively toward the hilt at her side.
The blade had not appeared through runes or summoning. It had blinked into being—without chant, without symbol—ripped from some unseen place in space. The sheer unnaturalness of its arrival was enough to crack their composure.
Arman didn't move.
The system flared again.
> [Item Acquired: Nameless Ego Relic]
Type: Shape-locked Blade (Growth-Type)
Bound To: Arman Valacre (Anomaly ID)
Status: Dormant
Current Name: Unavailable
Description:
A weapon that should not exist. Forged not by smiths but by suffering. It feeds off memory, off struggle. It remembers every death — and waits.
Effect (Dormant):
- Increases combat flow when HP is under 50%
- Gains "instinctive parry" effect during near-death states
- Evolves with emotional resonance, kill count, and sword art progression
Warning: Ego Core is inactive
Warning: True form sealed
Note: Artifact whispers back.
---
His pulse spiked.
He gripped the hilt.
And in that moment—briefly—he swore he heard a voice.
Faint. Genderless. A murmur at the edge of thought.
"…Still… incomplete…"
Arman's breath caught in his throat.
"What… are you?" he whispered.
The sword pulsed once in response. The weight settled into his grip like a memory that belonged to him before he ever arrived in this world.
It didn't just feel like a blade.
It felt like a bond.
Selvaria watched him carefully. "That weapon…"
He slid the sword into his belt, its jagged edge humming once before falling silent.
"It's nothing," he lied.
But her gaze lingered.
Too long.
As if she wasn't sure whether to draw her own weapon or simply ask what kind of magic had just passed before her.
Miren stood in the corner of the room, tea tray forgotten.
She didn't speak. But for the first time, she didn't look at him with disdain.
She looked at him like he was a stranger who might actually matter.
The silence stretched. Arman took one step back, bowing politely—briefly—then turned without another word.
No goodbye. No excuse. No glance behind him.
He left the room.
Selvaria stood frozen.
Miren slowly gathered the untouched tea, eyes flicking to the door that had just closed.
"What the hell was that…" she whispered.
Back in his quarters, Arman sat cross-legged on the floor.
He placed the blade on the ground before him. It didn't rattle. It didn't shimmer. It waited.
The moment he closed his eyes, the system pulsed again.
> [Weapon Sync Rate: 1% – Increasing…]
> [User Condition Detected: Emotional Flux Present]
> [Resonance with Vow Echo Detected – Refusal to Die]
> [Link Established – Compatibility: Uncertain]
He reached forward and pressed his fingers to the flat of the blade.
"Let's see what you become."
The sword did not answer.
But its surface shimmered faintly with the heartbeat of something alive.
Not fully awakened.
But watching.
Waiting.
—And Arman leaned back, staring at the ceiling—
He'd done it.
He'd completed the tutorial. He'd survived a hundred deaths. Defeated monsters far beyond his rank. Claimed something no player—or no *person*—was meant to claim.
And now?
Now he was level 1, with a cursed weapon in a world where his name meant little, and his future even less.
He let out a long breath.
Then whispered—
"…Now what path do I take?"